


Storybooks and Snuggling

by fireopal77



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angel Wings, Angst, Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Love, Romance, Season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-01 23:07:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16293638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireopal77/pseuds/fireopal77
Summary: An alternate version of episode 3x08 “Chloe Does Lucifer,” what happens after the Monopoly game.





	Storybooks and Snuggling

Lucifer can hear the soft murmur of voices coming from the child’s bedroom as he moves about the apartment, padding softly in his black socks, tidying up after their fun-filled night of karaoke, face-painting, Monopoly and snacks. His Detective is reading her offspring a rather improbable story about an ice-skating hedgehog named Sonia which the tiny human blindly accepts without asking even one of the myriad of questions this illogical narrative clearly provokes. Hedgehogs by their very nature are not aerodynamic, bipedal, or particularly graceful, so the idea of one executing a perfect triple axel and winning a gold medal at the Winter Olympics as thousands cheer is utterly absurd.

 

Lucifer finds that children’s literature is a uniquely bizarre and bewildering genre populated with such perplexing conundrums as tap-dancing turkeys, matrimonially inclined frogs, lovelorn jellyfish, vampire bunny rabbits, and seafaring jack o’lanterns. He still hasn’t figured out why a jack o’lantern was on board the _Titanic_ in the first place since the ship sank in April not October. Even Amenadiel hasn’t been able to make sense of it, and not for lack of trying, he read the blasted book five times. Dr. Linda is also at a loss, and the best the Detective can do is a feeble “It’s just a story, Lucifer!” accompanied by an exasperated eye-roll. Granted April 14, 1912 was a night of great chaos and panic, but what ship’s officer in his right mind would have given one of the much coveted seats in the tragically insufficient lifeboats to a grinning orange gourd that would begin to rot and collapse in upon itself within a few days at the expense of saving a human life? It’s bloody confounding! Lucifer has come to the conclusion that the only possible explanation is to ensure the obligatory happy ending and spare mothers foolish enough to read this idiotic drivel to their offspring from having to deal with a plethora of tears and nightmares over the watery demise of Jack.

 

The Monopoly board is folded away, back inside its cardboard box, with all the faux cash and tiny tokens, except for the little silver shoe that Lucifer impulsively slips inside his pocket. He can’t explain why—Perhaps it’s something he should discuss with Dr. Linda?—he just wants it, for what it represents, a quieter kind of fun commingling with a contentment he’s never known before. He’s only had one glass of red wine, two slices of pepperoni pizza, two chocolate-dipped strawberries, and a pink bubblegum flavored lolly, he hasn’t taken any drugs, or indulged his carnal lusts, yet he feels…good and, oddly, satisfied. He hasn’t even spared a thought for the naughty revels going on without him at Lux. It doesn’t make a bit of sense! This is the sort of thing he relies on Dr. Linda to interpret. The Devil speaks every language, but this one is bewilderingly foreign yet strangely soothing. So he takes the shoe. He wants to be able to carry it in his pocket, like a cherished lucky charm, hold it on the palm of his hand, or set it on the glossy surface of his piano, so he can look at it whenever his mind mulls over this strange new sensation.

 

From the candlelit stairs, he retrieves the black stiletto heels that the Detective wore for her karaoke number—a very sexy, despite its PG rating, rendition of “Hey, Big Spender”—and sets them on the floor beside her bedroom door, not quite daring to go inside in case she might consider that an intrusion, though he longs to look inside all the drawers. He wants to touch her bras and panties, because they intimately embrace her every day, cradling and caressing her in a way that he can’t, and hunt for any hidden sex toys too, of course.

 

Maze claims that Chloe has a sexy, hot candy apple red vibrator with a horny little devil clitoral stimulator attached to the realistically rendered shaft in a red velvet drawstring bag buried at the back of her underwear drawer beneath a pile of pastel flowered cotton granny panties. Though Lucifer suspects the demon only said it to torment him, that doesn’t stop him from fantasizing endlessly about it almost to the point of madness.

 

Whenever he wakes, alone, in the darkness before the dawn, he imagines Chloe still in her bed too, before the business of the day begins, stealing a half hour of private pleasure for herself. He wonders if she’s thinking about him too. And he touches himself, because maybe if she’s doing the same thing at the same time, the shared action will somehow bridge the gap—or yawning chasm—between them and bring them closer together. But then, no matter how hard he tries not to, he always looks at the vacant pillow beside him, longing to see her face, and tears prick his eyes, and he feels an overwhelming emptiness inside—No, that’s not quite true, the emptiness is filled with an all-encompassing sadness. The joy of release is followed so quickly by sorrow, yet he keeps subjecting himself to this torture. Why? Maybe this is something else he should discuss with Dr. Linda? Plus it’s led to a rather awkward, vexing and unexpected side effect—now every time the Detective mentions batteries Lucifer gets an erection.

 

It’s very confusing, and strange, he shouldn’t be the least bit stimulated listening to a woman talk on the phone to her mother about the great deal she got on bulk batteries at Costco, he should find such a conversation mind-numbingly boring and tune it right out, but every time Chloe does it he’s riveted, hanging on every overheard word, afraid his pants are going to explode. Of course, whenever he quizzes her about all these large and frequent battery purchases, she says they’re for her flameless candles—in all fairness, she does have quite a lot of them—flashlights and lanterns for when she takes the child camping, “and stuff.” That tantalizingly vague “and stuff” keeps hope alive and allows Lucifer to go on fantasizing about her having the Devil’s cock between her thighs, even if it is a soulless mechanical device and not the real thing. If only… What fun they could have if they played together, in the same bed, instead of miles apart in the pre-dawn hours. Why did his father have to interfere and make Chloe one of His bloody miracles? It’s the worst torment imaginable, being torn between what he truly desires, eternal parental defiance, and this altruistic compulsion to act in the Detective’s best interests.

 

He sits down on the stairs to dash off a quick text to Dr. Linda asking for a session and to put his shoes back on. Then he picks up the urchin’s bright scarlet and fuchsia flower splashed backpack and deposits it on the kitchen island to await the next day’s schooling. He knows where the Detective hides the goodies and slips a chocolate bar inside; it’ll brighten the child’s day far more than those bland little cups of applesauce or the tiny boxes of raisins she always includes as a healthy snack.

 

As he refreshes his glass of red wine and chooses one of the decadent chocolate-dipped strawberries he brought as a special treat, a movement inside the bedroom attracts his eye. Nonsensical storybook thankfully set aside, Chloe has been lying on the narrow bed, spooned around her spawn, cuddling with her as they whisper softly together for several minutes, but now she stands and bends to tenderly adjust the covers and deliver one last kiss before turning out the light. It seems a tad insensitive to Lucifer’s mind, leaving the child in the dark and wishing it “sweet dreams” when it’s bound to suffer hellish nightmares about hedgehogs.

 

Lucifer feels a sudden pang of knife-sharp sadness. He’s never been a child, he came into the world fully formed eons ago, the day he was born he became the Lightbringer tasked with lighting up the world with stars, sun, and moon, so he never had the nurturing and care that helpless, mewling, incontinent newborn human offspring seem to demand as their due. It’s funny, he never thought a day would come when he would find himself actually envying one of the needy, burdensome little creatures, yet he yearns to be the recipient of such tenderness from his Detective. He wants her to lie beside him, snuggling and spooning, sans storybook of course, he’d far prefer pillow-talk.

 

Chloe softly shuts Trixie’s door and comes to join him on the couch.

 

“Sorry that took so long,” she says, accepting the glass of wine Lucifer offers her, along with a strawberry drizzled with zigzags of white and dark chocolate. She settles down comfortably beside him, tucking her bare feet up under her. “But I like to take my time, you know, cherish every moment. Soon she’ll be too old for story-time, or to want her mom tucking her in. I know kids grow up, but every night part of me is afraid she’ll say the words, and the last time will have already passed without me even knowing it was the last.”

 

As Chloe contemplates the fleeting nature of time, a sudden sadness steals over her face. She swallows hard, fighting down the glimmer of tears in her stormy blue eyes. The glittery pink flowers painted across her forehead seem to wilt and frown as she picks up one of the decorative throw pillows and hugs it close. Lucifer is surprised to suddenly find himself harboring feelings of intense, aching resentment for the inanimate object of cheap home décor nestled so close to his Detective’s lovely breasts. Surely it isn’t normal to be seized by a sudden passion to buy HomeGoods just to have the pleasure of burning the place to the ground? Oh goody! Yet one more thing to discuss with Dr. Linda! Perhaps he should have booked a double session? An hour suddenly seems vastly insufficient.  

 

“What will you do then?” Lucifer asks, out of genuine curiosity, and to distract himself from his spontaneous fit of cushion loathing. “Will you have another? You’re obviously still breedable.”

 

“Breedable!” Chloe exclaims with a burst of incredulous laughter. “Seriously, Lucifer? Breedable? What am I a show dog or a cow?”

 

“No, most definitely not!” Lucifer says defensively and lets his eyes rove appreciatively over her figure, or what he can see of it around that infernal pillow. “Is that the wrong word then?”

 

“Well, yeah, sort of,” Chloe nods, fighting back her laughter, “next time maybe try _fertile_.”

 

“Very well then,” Lucifer shrugs and takes another sip of wine, “you’re obviously still _fertile_.”

 

“Thanks? I think?” Chloe laughs nervously then pauses uncertainly and frowns. “I wasn’t aware it was so obvious.” Is he just referring to her age, or does he mean something worse? He’s been in her apartment before when a basket of dirty laundry was sitting in plain sight, waiting for her attention. And he was there once when she and Trixie came home from a truly epic Costco run. She’s fairly certain that was the time she got that humongous box of Tampax for only $12.99, it would have been impossible for him not to have noticed it, that box was bigger than the microwave. Or maybe he was rummaging in her desk at the precinct and found the little box of tampons tucked at the back of the bottom drawer.

 

Utterly unruffled, Lucifer selects another strawberry. “Every 26 days when we go to the coffee shop you want the most chocolatey brownie they have in the dessert case instead of your usual lemon bar. Sometimes on the 27th or 28th or even the 29th day too, if you’re feeling particularly stressed or if the pain is really bad. Possibly the chocolate helps the Advil to work better? You know, I could get you much stronger pills, you have only to ask. But I know you won’t,” he sighs, “because I’m not supposed to know about this, though I can’t fathom why. I assure you, I’m perfectly aware that human females typically bleed every month until some point usually in their fourth or fifth decade. Does it embarrass you? Or is it because it’s a subject dickish men habitually make crude comments about? Surely you’re not afraid that I would say something improper?”

 

Chloe just sits and stares at him open-mouthed like a stunned goldfish, but Lucifer just shrugs and continues.

 

“If I come here on those days, the heating pad is always on the couch, but you hide it under a blanket or a pillow when I come in, which means you don’t want me to know. Remember that time Maze left the toaster on the floor and you tripped over it and I caught you so you wouldn’t fall? I could feel the warmth from the heating pad on your lower back, and in front…lower down,” he lets his eyes sweep delicately down to her lap then swiftly back up to her face again, “so I knew, even though you were up and dressed and ready to go to work, you were still in pain and wanted to use the heating pad as long as possible before you had to leave. You only turned it off and hid it when I came in. But I can’t figure out…why do you sleep on the couch when you’re in pain? Surely the cord on the heating pad is sufficiently long for you to have it in bed with you? Is there a scarcity of convenient outlets? If you’re too embarrassed, I could speak to your landlord about it, Devil to man. I assure you, I’m not the least bit bashful upon the subject of menstruation. Or is your bed the problem? Does the mattress make the pain worse? We can go shopping and get you a new one, a better one, and pillows too, of course. Pillows are very important; are you certain you have the right ones? Or you can sleep in my bed,” he brightens at the idea. “I don’t mind at all!”

 

Chloe doesn’t know whether to laugh or to cry or both. He’s actually being sincere, and expressing genuine concern about her comfort and health, in his unique Luciferian way, it’s weird, but well-intentioned and sweet.

 

Lucifer frowns at her continued silence. “Detective? My apologies, if I’ve said something I shouldn’t…”

 

“No, no,” Chloe shakes her head and offers him a reassuring smile, “it’s okay, it’s just…I can’t believe…you figured out my menstrual cycle based on when I want brownies instead of lemon bars.”

 

“Yes, I know, it was very Sherlock Holmes of me,” Lucifer preens.

 

“Yeah,” Chloe nods, “that’s exactly what I was thinking.”

 

She finishes her wine and gets up to take the empty glass and bottle to the kitchen, and Lucifer follows with his own glass and the remaining strawberries.

 

“You never did answer my question…”

 

“Hmm? About the couch? Oh, just habit, I guess,” Chloe shrugs as she puts the glasses in the sink. “The cramps always hit me hard, I never sleep well when it’s that time of the month. I was always twisting around, trying to get comfortable, or getting tangled up in the sheets and the heating pad cord, or getting up to go to the bathroom, and it kept Dan awake, so I started sleeping on the couch on those nights, and I just got used to it.”

 

“But that isn’t right at all!” Lucifer exclaims. “Oh Daniel, Daniel, forever the Douche!” He sighs and shakes his head. “He should have been the one to sleep on the couch! Did he do nothing for you? A hot bath, a massage, a cup of hot chocolate at least? Premium cocoa, of course.”

 

Chloe can’t believe how upset he looks. She’s afraid he’s going to punch Dan the next time he sees him. A brawl about her menstrual cramps in the middle of the precinct is the last thing she needs.

 

 “Lucifer, it’s okay, really, it’s nothing to get upset about, and there’s no reason to be mad at Dan. It was my idea, not his.” She joins him leaning against the kitchen island and strokes his arm, like someone trying to gentle a wild and skittish animal. “I don’t roll around as much or get tangled up in the cord on the couch. I really do rest better there.”

 

Lucifer looks doubtful, but he lets the subject drop. “And my other question? About the offspring? Will you have another when the current one decides she is too old for storybooks and snuggling?”

 

“What, worried about competition, you big baby?” Chloe teases, and then, seeing his offended expression, gives his chest an affectionate pat and leans her head briefly—too briefly!—against his shoulder.

 

Lucifer has to bite his lip to keep from blurting out “again, please!” He loves it when she touches his chest, but she always does it so suddenly and unexpectedly that it’s already over before he has the chance to savor the sensation and he spends the rest of the day, or night, being haunted by the ghost of her touch.

 

“No,” Chloe shakes her head. “When I had Trixie it was a very difficult pregnancy, lots of complications, I was sick the whole time, and there were a couple of close calls, for Trixie and for me. I don’t regret it, I wouldn’t change it for the world, but the miracle of birth is not something I want to experience again. I really am happy with just Trixie, even though it makes me sad sometimes when I think about how fast she’s growing up. What about you?” she asks suddenly. “You know, it just occurred to me, as many um…bed-warmers as you’ve had…well, accidents happen, but I’ve never heard any rumors about any little devils running around.”

 

“And you never will—unless someone lies and tries to frame me, of course—I told you, movies and TV always get it wrong. All these silly films about cults luring and entrapping sweet young girls to copulate with Satan so he can father the Antichrist, or the Prince of Darkness seducing bored housewives or nuns for the same purpose…Stuff and nonsense! It’s quite impossible for The Devil to impregnate anyone.”

 

“Mumps?” Chloe asks.

 

Lucifer responds with a baffled stare.

 

“You know, the disease, mumps, it causes sterility sometimes.”

 

“Oh! No,” he shakes his head, “it was all Dear Old Dad’s doing, he decided it would be better if we—the whole litter, not just me—weren’t allowed to reproduce, since it was rather unrealistic to expect all of us to remain chaste, so…”

 

Chloe’s jaw almost hits the floor. “What? You mean your Dad had all of you sterilized? Lucifer, that’s terrible! Wait! Is that even legal?”

 

Lucifer shrugs. “You know Dad; He’s a law unto Himself.”

 

What the hell kind of crazy family was this? Wealthy patriarch with some sort of God complex adopts a number of children from different cultural backgrounds, brings them up with unyielding strictness, devoid of affection, but with every conceivable luxury, including the finest educations money can buy, and when they resist the idea of lifelong virginity has them all sterilized? It sounds like some kind of cult! Was it a religious thing? Or was the guy a believer in selective breeding or something? Were all the kids he adopted considered problem children and he thought by depriving them of their reproductive rights he was doing society a favor?

 

“How old were you?” Her hand is on his chest again and Lucifer feels as if he might melt. But then, just as quickly, it’s gone again, like a little bird taking flight. “Did you even understand what was happening to you?”

 

“I don’t rightly remember, it was so long ago, I was still a virgin, so I suppose I must have been quite young,” Lucifer shrugs and calmly selects another strawberry. “I didn’t know until afterwards, none of us did, we weren’t consulted about it. Dad just decided, and it was done.”

 

“Lucifer, I’m so sorry! That is so…wrong and…sad! Your Dad had no right to do that to you, to any of you!”

 

Tears fill Chloe’s eyes as she imagines a little boy with dark curly hair and chocolate brown eyes in a hospital gown, too young to understand what is happening to him, eyes wide with confusion and fright as the mask to administer the anesthesia descends over his nose and mouth. They probably told him they were going to take his tonsils out and promised he could have ice cream afterwards. And then, hours later—she can see him in her mind’s eye and it’s absolutely heartbreaking!—waking up, groggy and sore, with a bandage “down there.” Was there anyone, a stepmother or some friendly nurse, to hold and comfort him? Both her heart and head already know the answer, it’s a sad and definite “no,” Lucifer’s body tells her that every time he hesitates awkwardly over a hug.

 

How was this even allowed to happen? Surely no legitimate hospital, and no respectable, responsible doctor, would ever agree to the mass-sterilization of a bunch of adopted kids no matter how rich and influential their father was. What did he do, ship them all off to Paraguay and hire some shady unlicensed quack to perform the procedure?

 

Lucifer frowns as Chloe’s fingers quickly whisk away the tears.

 

“You mustn’t be sad about it, Detective,” he says with a reassuring smile, “I assure you, I’m not. I’ve never had the slightest desire to procreate. Here, have another strawberry, it will make you feel better.” He holds one of the enticing red berries up to her lips.

 

To please him, Chloe takes a bite.

 

“There, better now?” he smiles.

 

“Yeah,” she nods, “it’s just…something was taken from you before you were even old enough to understand what it was or what it might mean for you later…and I find that really sad, for all of you. Even if you don’t want children of your own—and that’s okay—but maybe some of your brothers and sisters did. What did you do when you found out?”

 

“I floated up amongst the stars,” he says with a dreamy smile, and there’s a faraway look in his eyes as though he’s remembering something very pleasant and peaceful.

 

“Yeah,” Chloe nods with a sad, wavering smile, “of course you did.” They must have given him a pretty powerful sedative.

 

“Come on!” Lucifer impulsively grabs Chloe’s hand and pulls her towards the door. “Let’s go out and see if we can see them!”

 

“See what?”

 

“The stars!”

 

They stand together, side-by-side, at the railing outside her apartment door, gazing up at a sky that looks like navy blue velvet spangled with a million diamonds. It’s a breathtaking sight. Chloe slips her arm around Lucifer and leans against him, and, after a moment, he does the same. She feels the awkwardness and tension melt from his body and he relaxes against her. He feels good, as warm and comforting as toast, and she wants to invite him to stay, only fear holds her back—fear of rejection and the sense of inferiority she always feels when she thinks about Lucifer’s legion of beautiful, uninhibited, and accomplished lovers. Not a Plain Jane or boring vanilla in the bunch.

 

“They’re beautiful!” Chloe whispers in awe as she looks up at the stars.

 

“Thank you,” Lucifer says proudly with a broad smile and a nod of satisfaction.

 

Chloe decides to let the metaphors go, at least for tonight, and just roll with it. She leans her head against his shoulder and reaches up to rub lazy circles on his chest. “I guess they’re kind of like your children, huh?”

 

Her touch feels so good, and he can hardly speak, his heart is beating so. Surely she can feel it under her hand? And hear it too—it’s loud as a drum!

 

“I never thought of it that way, but yes, I suppose they are.”

 

“Do they have names?”

 

“Yes, but it would take many lifetimes to tell you them all.” The tragic rest of that sentence remains unspoken: _and you, my love, have only one._

 

After a few more minutes of silent stargazing, they say their goodnights, reluctantly, neither of them finding the courage to admit they don’t want to say it at all, at least not in parting.

 

***

 

Back in his penthouse, Lucifer finds Amenadiel waiting to needle him about how he spent his evening and the glitter-paint unicorn decorating his cheek. “Wine, women, and song,” is technically correct—he shared a bottle of red wine with the Detective, she and her spawn are both female, and there was karaoke while they were waiting for their pizza to arrive. The delivery boy even joined them for a rousing ABBA medley. Amenadiel’s reassurances that “there’s nothing wrong with spending a quiet night in,” only serve to remind him of his glamorous life, the hedonistic playboy image he has to maintain, and Lucifer starts to feel nervous and defensive. But Amenadiel doesn’t know when to stop. “Luci, I’m liking this new you; boring suits you, brother!” he says from the elevator, mercifully, on his way down.

 

“The Devil doesn’t do domesticity!” Lucifer fumes, and starts to throw his etched crystal whiskey glass at the elevator doors just before the metal halves meet, but the little stolen shoe in his pocket suddenly feels like it’s kicking him.

 

Alone, Lucifer lights a cigarette and pours himself another drink. He paces back and forth like a caged tiger, a proud jungle beast that suddenly finds itself confined inside a box. He thinks about going downstairs and losing himself in the throng of lusty, dancing bodies, swallowing pills by the handful and snorting cocaine off a whore’s stomach, before ending the night in a tangle of bare limbs just as the dawn is breaking, so he won’t wake up alone, thinking about Chloe and that possibly fictitious red vibrator. But tonight Lux, and everything it represents, holds no allure. Suddenly it all feels like a beautiful, glittering illusion, vapid and hollow. And all the naked strangers who warm his bed suddenly leave him cold as ice. Dr. Linda once told him that a person can be lonely even in the midst of a crowd, and he’s been rejecting and running away from those words ever since, but it’s a truth he finds it harder and harder to ignore. There are times when it steps right up and slaps him in the face. Perhaps “boring” is a word he needs to re-define?

 

“I define who I am!” he growls savagely and shatters his glass against the wall.

 

He wants to just stay in the penthouse and play his piano, and let the music soothe him, but he knows he’s too restless for that, his fingers would only fumble discordantly over the keys. He can’t stop his heart from pounding, it fills his ears, and feels like at any moment it’s going to burst right through his chest. And his breathing isn’t right; it’s way too fast, every breath feels too short and shallow. Rivulets of sweat snake down his skin, soaking his clothes, and his eyes sting. His mind is racing, he can’t stop thinking about top hats, thimbles, racecars, and shoes, storybooks and snuggling, Chloe tucking her child into bed, and the way it made him feel, her head on his shoulder, and her hand rubbing his chest. If only she were here to do that now—it would either calm him or kill him!

 

When he’s certain he can’t stand his ricocheting thoughts, going back and forth in a never-ending hell loop like a lightning fast ping-pong ball, another moment without going mad, Lucifer takes the elevator down to the garage and climbs into his Corvette. He drives as fast as he can out into the nearest desert. He needs to feel the speed, the wind in his hair, cooling his fever-hot skin, drying his clothes, giving him the illusion that he can outrun his problems, and the fears he can’t even admit are fears.

 

When there’s only sand, cactus, and rocks spread out for miles, as far as the eye can see, he parks the car and peels off his clothes. The magnificent, luminous white wings unfurl, glorying in this gift of unexpected freedom, unrestrained by walls or worries about revealing divinity to human eyes, the feathers ruffling gently, caressed by the night air. His body responds to the same soothing, sensuous caress of the wind’s invisible fingers. He feels free and unfettered, like he can breathe again without the stabbing pangs of panic. His heartbeat slows and steadies and stops its loud, erratic rhythm. And the clamoring thoughts have stopped fighting with each other and trying to crowd him out of his own head.

 

Lucifer finds being naked calming. As much as he loves fine clothes, even though he’s had eons to adapt, he still regards nakedness as his natural state. He’s always been completely comfortable in his own skin. After all, before what happened in Eden, Eve and the Forbidden Fruit, nakedness was beauty, freedom, purity, innocence, and grace; no angel ever wore clothes. Then in one shattering moment all that changed and there was a panicked, shame and horror filled rush for loincloths and robes, even fig leaves would do in a pinch. Though he outwardly conformed and covered his body, privately Lucifer, the rebel angel, never got the memo, his attitude towards nudity never altered.

 

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes and leans his head back as the breeze combs his hair and stirs his feathers. Then Lucifer does what he hasn’t done since before his fall, he soars up, so high he can touch the stars.

 

Like a tired businessman relaxing after a hard day’s work in his swimming pool, Lucifer reclines, floating in the blue-black sky, basking beneath the diamond-bright silver-white stars Chloe called his children.

 

Swimming amongst the stars, Lucifer finds the serenity and clarity he needs. He wishes he could share this with her, bring her within touching distance of the stars, to glide and play, and make love amongst the twinkling light of his creations, and see the stardust sparkling in her hair. But it’s far too high for the fragile human body to withstand—it would burn, crush, and blind her—so they can never dare these heights together. He imagines her straddling him, as he lies on his back, gazing up at her, seeing the stars shining behind and above and all around her, and he knows then that she is the true light of his world. Dad’s miracle or not, it really doesn’t matter, without her, for him all is blind, cold, lonely darkness.

 

He descends to earth, dons his clothes, and drives back to where he should never have left at all.

 

***

 

When Chloe answers the door she’s wearing a red and black plaid pajama top and her hair, freed from its messy bun, is a beautiful rumpled mass of golden brown waves. She’s scrubbed the urchin’s artwork off of her face, and she looks a little flushed, but wide awake. Good, Lucifer breathes a sigh of relief, she won’t be angry at him for waking her up.

 

“Lucifer, what’s wrong?” she asks as she holds the door open for him.

 

“I forgot to tell you something important,” he says sheepishly.

 

“Okay,” she nods as he follows her to the couch.

 

When she sits down and folds her bare legs beneath her, a quick flash of hip reveals she’s not wearing panties.

 

Lucifer feels like his heart is stuck in his throat and a giant eraser has just wiped out his brain.

 

“So, what’s this important thing you forgot to tell me?” Chloe asks curiously.

 

“Oh…um…Yes, but first…Do you always answer the door dressed, or rather undressed, like that,” he indicates her sleep shirt, “if someone knocks this late?”

 

“Not usually, no, I was just getting ready for bed when you knocked, and I had a feeling it was you.”

 

“Really?” Lucifer smiles, sidling closer, licking his lips and eyeing her hungrily.

 

Chloe presses her palm against his chest. “Lucifer, focus! You were going to tell me something, something important, remember?”

 

“Was I? Oh! Yes, I was!” he grins and nods vigorously.

 

“Okay…”

 

“But what would you have done if it hadn’t been me at the door?” Lucifer persists.

 

Chloe sighs and rolls her eyes. “Depending on who it was, I would have grabbed a blanket from the couch and wrapped it around me if I wasn’t comfortable with them seeing me in my pajama top.”

 

“So that means you’re comfortable with me seeing you like this?” Lucifer is almost over the moon with joy.

 

“Yeah, I guess it does. But if you’re not comfortable…” she starts to reach for the blanket draped over the back of the couch.

 

“No, no, no, that’s quite all right, Detective, I want you to be comfortable!” he reaches out quickly to stop her.

 

“Well it seems to be distracting you from telling me whatever it is you wanted to tell me.”

 

Lucifer becomes suddenly aware that his hand is still covering hers, his thumb lightly massaging the back, so that her fingers relax and her grip uncurls from the fluffy plush blanket.  He sits and stares, transfixed, thinking about how soft and small her hand is, and how perfectly it fits in his. Words fail, there are none sufficient to tell how much he wants to feel her hands touching, caressing and exploring, him.

 

“Lucifer!” Chloe is getting impatient. “Come on, out with it, it’s late, stop stalling!”

 

“Very well, Detective!” he sighs. “I just wanted to tell you…”

 

Chloe is starting to feel like a human bobble head the way she keeps nodding and smiling.

 

And then the words pour out in such a rapid rush Chloe can barely wrap her head around them.

 

“I just wanted to tell you that when your spawn decides she’s too old you can tuck me in instead, and you can snuggle with me too, if you like, but no storybooks please, I refuse to have hedgehogs disturb my dreams, and I’m thinking about offering a line of decadent desserts at Lux, you know, Devil’s Food Cake, Red Velvet and such. Do you think $25 a slice is too much? But we can talk about that tomorrow. Goodnight!” he leaps up and starts for the door.

 

“Lucifer,” Chloe says softly but firmly, “get back here.”

 

“Detective!” he whines, stopping but keeping his face turned stubbornly towards the door, so she won’t see him blushing. “It’s late! I need my rest, and so do you! Now, I know it’s exciting news, and, in hindsight, my eagerness to tell you made it seem more important than it actually was, but we can talk about the cake tomorrow, it’s not worth losing sleep over...”

 

“Yeah, you’re right,” Chloe agrees, coming around in front of him. She turns the lock on the door and leans her back against it. “We can talk about the cake tomorrow.”

 

“But…I don’t understand…Why are you blocking the door? I’m The Devil not Casper the bloody Ghost, I can’t walk through walls, well not without seriously damaging them.”

 

“Then I guess you’ll just have to stay, or reimburse the landlord for the damages. Come on, Satan,” she takes his hand and tugs him towards the stairs, “it’s late, I’ll tuck you in, then you can tell me all about your absurdly overpriced cake in the morning while you’re making breakfast.”

 

“You really think $25 is too much?” Lucifer frowns, suddenly overcome by nervousness. As much as he wants to go upstairs with her, he finds himself lingering on the stairs, his free hand clinging to the rail as though it’s a life preserver.

 

“For a slice? Yeah!” Chloe jerks his hand to get him moving again.  “I can get a whole cake for $9.99 at the grocery store, $14.99 if it’s a double layer.”

 

“Ah, but is the cake of which you speak decadent?” He pauses outside her bedroom door, peeping in at the bed with the pillows enticingly plumped and the covers turned down. His eyes pop at the pair of white cotton and lace panties tossed wantonly on the floor. And is that really a red drawstring bag on the nightstand?

 

“Decadent or not, Lucifer, a cake is mostly flour, sugar, eggs, milk or water, and cocoa or vanilla depending on the flavor. Go on, get in there,” she gives his back a gentle shove, taking care not to press the area where his scars are, and shuts the door. “Get your clothes off, it’s late, and we both need our rest, we have work tomorrow, and Trixie has school. Do you need help with your buttons?”

 

“Yes,” Lucifer finally stops fighting the inevitable, he wants her, he wants her love, more than he’s ever wanted anything, “yes, I do, please.”

 

“Yeah, I thought you might,” Chloe nods knowingly and comes towards him.

 


End file.
